“Not for long.” Kyle threw his arms out with a grin. “Starting tomorrow, I’m a free man.”
Grey looked over at Jordan. “They didn’t say he had a head injury.”
Jordan smiled. “No, it’s true, Dad. Kyle’s been released from prison. And he was stabbed with a fork.”
Her brother stared at the ceiling. “I’m going to be hearing about this for years, aren’t I?”
“Kyle, dear brother of mine, you have no idea.”
“EVERYTHING OKAY, XANDER?”
The question came from Will Parsons, who was once again on duty as general manager that night. Bordeaux was packed, as expected. Xander stood in the doorway between the main lounge and wine bar, a position from which he could see virtually the entire club. He wanted to watch for a few minutes. Soak it all in.
“I’m fine,” he told Will. Of course, that wasn’t true.
He was f**ked. He should’ve been satisfied with being the top nightclub and restaurant owner in the city. But a year ago, he’d gotten greedy.
Sure, he could say that no one refused Roberto Martino. And this was true—at least, no one refused Roberto Martino without suffering some very serious consequences. But Xander hadn’t needed to be coerced; he’d been perfectly willing to have Martino invest in his businesses as a silent partner. And now, it seemed, he would pay the price for that.
“I’m heading down to my office. I don’t want to be disturbed,” he told Will.
Will nodded. “Of course.”
Xander cut through the VIP wine bar and entered the security code on the panel next to the door that led to the lower level. As he descended the staircase and walked along the hallway to his office, he ran over the events of his wine tasting two weeks ago—the evening that Nick Stanton, aka Special Agent Nick McCall, had infiltrated the heart of his empire.
He wasn’t a fool—he had a pretty good idea what McCall had been after that night. Access to his meetings with Trilani.
If it hadn’t meant that he was so thoroughly screwed, Xander could almost admire the FBI’s cleverness. Using Jordan Rhodes—either with or without her knowledge—to get into his office on virtually the only night such an act was possible took careful, intricate planning.
And now he was a dead man.
Roberto Martino would kill him for letting the FBI in—inadvertently or not. That was the price one paid for doing business with Martino—mistakes were not tolerated, particularly where money was concerned. Xander foolishly had assumed he was above any such mistakes.
He entered his office and took a seat at his desk. As he sat there, knowing that the room was undoubtedly bugged, the weight of the situation pressed down on him like an anvil. He had the FBI coming in from the front, gearing up to launch a full-fledged attack, and Roberto Martino behind him, ready to slit his throat at the first sign of trouble.
He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket and called Trilani, knowing he would get his voice mail. He heard the beep.
“Carlo,” he said in a strained, weak voice. “We can’t meet tomorrow. I’ve got the stomach flu, whatever that thing is that’s been going around. Trust me, you don’t want to get close to this. I should be fine by next week—let’s meet Tuesday instead.”
Xander hung up. Got all that, you FBI pricks?
Unable to resist, he quietly ran his hand underneath the desk, searching for the bugs. He found nothing. He got up and walked over to the bookshelves on the other side of his office and gave them a thorough once-over. Again nothing. He moved next to the coffee table and chairs in the corner of the room and felt around. He came up empty-handed yet again. Nick McCall apparently knew a thing or two about planting bugs in well-hidden places.
Then there was the issue of Jordan.
Xander remembered all too well how she’d pulled him away from the crowd and asked to have a drink with him on the terrace—allegedly to discuss the case of Pétrus going to auction. He didn’t want to believe she had deliberately betrayed him. Maybe there was a part of him that simply didn’t want to accept the fact that he so naively could have feelings for someone who had no problem stabbing him in the back.
As he’d told Mercks, he wanted to know what Jordan knew. And if it turned out that she had been involved with the FBI, she would pay for her betrayal.
That, at least, was the one part of this messed-up situation he could control.
Twenty-four
JORDAN LEFT THE hospital shortly after midnight. She stepped outside to retrieve her car from the valet, only to discover that there was no valet. A sign informed her that parking attendants were available until eleven P.M.—information that would’ve been helpful an hour ago.
She went back inside the hospital, handed her ticket over at the first-floor customer service desk, and retrieved her car key. The clerk directed her to the parking garage across the street.
“The valet leaves the unclaimed cars on level two,” he said.
Braving the icy wind coming in off Lake Michigan, Jordan trudged dutifully across the street. At the elevator bank, she saw that each level had been assigned a famous singer and a song to help people remember where they’d parked. Level two, her stop, was Frank Sinatra. “Chicago,” naturally.
Inside the elevator, she leaned her head against the wall tiredly.
Long day. Crazy day. First the unexpected visit from Lisa, then her angry argument with Nick, then the not-so-angry moments with Nick, then her brother had been stabbed (sort of ) and released from prison.